my dream
I see you like this:
you clutch the tiny warm ball
of a new brown field-mouse.
pressing it into the warmth of your
scented neck
where your hair bends gently in to
brush your careful fingers...
it is cold outside,
and your breath moves slowly
away:
clouds of warmth
in the snow-white sunlight,
your words of comfort, your
essence atomized,
released
and later,
if the mists linger in the
year-old plow-valleys
whispering, "It's alright...
All is not cold and hunger,"
you will still be there,
warm.
It is only a dream I have,
a dream in which I am
helpless and
nestled in your neck.
***************
in her bed
our daughter has had her one more story,
her one more drink,
and dreams the part of herself that we never see.
In our living room
we have a movie running,
the Canadian Rockies of the early 17th century shift
in some conflict involving
intimate campfire reds, steel-blue glacial arms
cradling white, and silver-gray aspen groves to move
your intent eyes... I chose the movie this time.
The couch is long enough for us both
as I watch this light playing upon your nightgown
it is more deadly than second-hand smoke:
the Canadian Rockies
moving in the lines of your face, the folds
of your clothing.
I am kneading these silver trout you lay across my lap in this
stream we make of our bodies.
I will lay you in the winter glow of aspens
and smooth the clothing from your skin
so you can warm by our fire---
night-breath bristling the
invisible down
of your neck, fanning the glow
of your eyes.
*****************
Alone for a Week
I've been shuffling
around the house in my thin moccasins
not bothering to turn on lights
or to use dishes, it is quiet
except for the purr of our neighbor's
mowing his homogenous grass in the last
moments of twilight;
the house is dark except for the night-lights
I haven't unplugged in our daughters'
rooms--- those lights
supposed to chase the shadows away,
as though it weren't light that created shadow.
At intervals, I wander into the family room, stare at
the couch, then the blank TV. I am
grabbing at the tail-end of the hour
as it slips around the clock in the corner and my
hands close around still air.
I wonder how long it will take for me
to use up all the air that spent at least some time
in your lungs, moving through your throat and
spilling over your lips?
I know enough to know that I'm not going to get any work
done tonight. I can't let go of the clock
long enough to get lost in some of this stuff you left so I could
complete, undisturbed.
But I don't think I like being undisturbed
or passing by the orange glow from
our daughters' rooms;
and suddenly as my neighbor completes his last lap across his
grass, the evening has gone deaf
and I know fully that silence is a taking away of
something, a loss.
Were I single like one of my friends, perhaps
I would use my dishes and fold the laundry
seeing how these things all have places in the week,
maybe I would throw open the windows to let
today's air in, but in your absence I find that
silence and darkness have new names
and don't whisper, or rise and fall beside me.
The thinness of these moccasins reminds me of the
ground and my weight upon it---
that I'm st
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